


Afterwards

by LaVieEnRose



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-12 11:49:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15339249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaVieEnRose/pseuds/LaVieEnRose
Summary: Justin doesn't get away from the party in 2x14, and we proceed with some surprisingly low-key recovery.





	Afterwards

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eatsomefuckingchickensoup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eatsomefuckingchickensoup/gifts).



> I managed to take a super angsty prompt and make it kind of light and domestic because...me, but I still think it feels true. Hope it's what you were looking for!

When he'll look back on it, years later, Justin will be grateful that Brian put the pieces together before he did. Who knows how long, left to his own devices, he would have kept it to himself out of shame or fear or God, just the goddamn enormity of it all. At the time, he still woke up drenched in sweat from nightmares about the bashing to an unbelievably patient Brian, night after night, soothing him back to sleep, and every morning after he'd try not to stare at Brian across the kitchen table, wondering how the fuck he got this lucky, how the fuck Brian still hadn't thrown him out yet, and remind himself to never, never get too comfortable.

So, right on top of all of that? He would probably try to keep this shit from himself, if he really understood what was going on. But right now he's on the bathroom floor of the loft and all he knows is that he's been throwing up for three hours and finally, finally the front door opens.

“Oh my God, come here,” Justin says.

Brian comes to the bathroom door but stops short at the sight of Justin bent over the toilet. “Uh, pass, actually.”

“Shut up, I'm serious, I think I'm really sick.”

Brian sighs and crouches down. “What's wrong?” Justin feels Brian's hand on his forehead and almost cries from relief.

“I've been throwing up for three hours.”

“Actual three hours or Justin-Taylor-it-feels-like-three hours?”

“Actual three hours. Like, since eight AM three hours.”

“Christ, how much did you drink?”

“I don't remember.”

“Even you can't throw up for three hours from a hangover,” Brian says. “What the fuck did you take?”

“Seriously, I don't remember. I don't remember anything.”

“Well, did you take a drink from a stranger at that fucking party?” Brian stands up, and Justin hears him filling a glass of water. “How many times have I fucking—”

“This lecture would really be a lot more effective if I remembered anything,” Justin says, and retches again. Brian curses softly and drops to the floor next to him, his hand on his back.

When Justin's done, for the time being, Brian says, “Here, drink this.”

“It won't stay down.”

“Yeah, try anyway.”

Justin sips hesitantly at the water. “Where were you?”

“Long story.”

“Were you here last night?”

“Was I...what time did you get in?”

“Seriously, I don't remember. I don't remember getting home. I don't remember anything before looking at my watch and seeing it was nine AM and I was in here throwing up and you weren't here and I've been here ever since. I'm not talking like...vague, blurry memories. It's nothing. I told you, I think there's something wrong with me.”

Brian studies him.

Justin's voice is small. “Do you think it's a brain damage thing?”

“You are not brain damaged.”

“Brian,” Justin says, but it's all he can get before, as predicted, the water doesn't stay down.

Brian sighs. “Okay, first thing's first, we need to get you rehydrated.” Once Justin's done vomiting he pulls him gently to his feet. Justin sways dangerously as the room tilts, but Brian holds him up.

“Where are we going?”

“To the clinic, you need a banana bag.” He ruffles Justin's hair. “Happens to the best of us.”

Justin groans and drops his forehead against Brian's chest. “God. Let me get changed.”

“Okay,” Brian says, but as soon as Justin pushes past him and out the bathroom he grabs his arm. “Justin.”

“Hmm?” He knows something's wrong right away, because he can count the number of times Brian's addressed him by name on one hand and have fingers left over.

“There's blood on your clothes.”

“What?” He looks at himself. “Where?”

“Are these your clothes from last night?”

“Yeah...”

He swallows. “Take your pants off, okay?”

“Jesus, you usually don't sound so fucking depressed when you ask me that,” Justin says, and he lowers them. He hears Brian behind him breathe in sharply, and something stops him from turning around. “Brian?”

“You really don't remember anything from last night? You mean that? Nothing?”

“That's what I keep telling you.”

Brian is quiet.

“Why aren't you saying anything?” Justin says.

“Because I'm trying to figure out what to do.” It's maybe, Justin thinks, the most straightforward thing Brian has ever said to him.

“What do you mean?”

Brian is quiet for another second, then he takes Justin quickly into his arms and runs his hand down the back of his head. “Okay,” Brian says. “Okay, fuck this, I'm not going to lie to you.”

“O...okay?”

“We need to go to the hospital,” Brian says into his ear, so, so softly. “Because you're bleeding and I think you were raped last night.”

No, that's the most straightforward thing he's ever said.

 

**

 

Justin doesn't want to hear all the shit from the doctors, but someone needs to, so Brian leaves him in his hospital bed and steps outside. He nods through explanations of rape kits, drug tests, HIV screenings, CAT scans.

When he comes back in, he thinks about how young Justin always looks in hospital beds, and how he fucking hates that he any sort of 'always' reference for a kid he's known less than two years. Especially one involving hospitals.

He takes a deep breath and sits by the bed. “Okay, champ, here's the deal.”

Justin gives him a small half-smile.

“It looks like you took a shower last night after you got back.”

“That's not good, right?”

“It means we lost some physical evidence, yeah.”

He sighs. “Damn it.”

“Don't beat yourself up about it. You were confused and knew something felt wrong, you took a shower. Pretty reasonable.”

“So now what?”

“Well, you're still pretty beat up. So they're going to give you something for pain and for the nausea and probably a sedative.”

“I don't need a sedative.”

“You're in shock. Take it. Not allergic to Valium, are you?”

“I have no idea.”

“Okay.”

“Then what?”

Brian plays with Justin's fingers. “They're going to do a better exam, take some pictures.”

“Great.”

“Yeah, it's a good time. I can step outside if you—”

Justin tightens his grip on his hand. “Stay? Please?”

“Yeah.”

Justin sighs and shifts in the bed. “This still feels like a bad joke.”

“What do you need?” Brian asks.

He shrugs. “I don't know. I feel...normal. Every time a nurse walks in here she looks at me like she wants me to start wailing. I think I'm letting them down being this boring.”

“It'll probably hit you at some point.”

“Yeah,” Justin says. “Yeah, I know what that's like.” He glances at Brian. “Are you okay?”

“This isn't about me.”

“Don't,” Justin says. “Don't do that.”

“Do what?”

“Martyr yourself out about it. It's just gonna be more work for me later.”

Brian leans forwards, rests his forehead against Justin's temple. He still smells the way he's supposed to, under the hospital antiseptic. He closes his eyes and whispers, “I'm trying to stay here.”

Justin doesn't ask what he means. “You're doing a good job.”

“So are you.”

“I'm not really doing anything. Just lying here.” He twists Brian's fingers in his. “Let's just be normal together.”

“Okay.” Brian kisses his cheek. “Okay, let's do that.”

“Do they think I'm going to remember?” Justin says. “Like prom...some of that came back eventually.”

Brian forces, fucking _forces_ himself to keep it together. “They don't think so.”

“That's good, right?” Justin says. “I think that's good?” He looks at Brian with those big blue eyes.

Brian just nods a little.

Justin sighs. “I usually like to know everything.”

“I know.”

“Maybe not this time.”

Brian is doing everything in his power not to imagine it, not to see it, not to guess who, who, who. Not to get the fuck out of here and track down the Sap and fucking—

Trying to stay here.

“Don't turn into somebody else,” Justin says suddenly.

Brian takes a deep breath. “Okay.” And then, because he has to say it, he says, “You can if you need to, though.”

“I just had to do that,” Justin says, his voice breaking a little. “I'm tired of that.”

Brian buries his nose in his hair. “I know.”

The doctor comes in and speaks softly to Justin and starts the exam. Justin chews on his fingernails and looks away, and Brian looks at the ceiling, looks at the walls, counts to ten, counts to a hundred, counts to a million.

Abruptly, Justin says, “Do you have any games on your phone?”

“Um.” Brian takes out his cell phone. “Snake, I think. You want to play?”

“You play. I'll watch,” Justin says, and Brian takes a deep breath and pulls his chair in closer to the bed and they play Snake while the doctor fills the rape kit.

 

**

 

They get back to the loft late that night. Justin feels groggy and shaky and lets Brian sit him on the bed. The hospital kept his clothes, so he's still wearing a gown, and it makes him feel like a sick person.

Brian carefully unties it and pulls a sweatshirt over his head.

“You've done this before, huh?” Justin asks.

“Taken someone out of a hospital gown?” Brian's voice is soft. “No, this is a first. Here.” He helps Justin stand up and eases him into a pair of sweatpants. It's nice, Justin thinks vaguely, getting dressed by Brian. Intimate. Are things allowed to feel nice right now?

“Taken someone to the hospital,” Justin says. “You know. After.”

Brian nods a little.

“Who?” Justin says. “Lindsay? Michael?”

“Does it matter?”

“Maybe I'm looking for someone to bond with,” Justin says. Is he allowed to tell jokes?

Brian shakes his head, looking down. “It's no one you know,” he says. “It was a long time ago.”

Justin flops down on the bed. “Did you ever tell anyone?”

“No.”

“Do I have to tell people?”

Brian stretches out next to him, not touching. “No.”

“It would just...it would be such a thing,” Justin says. “But I'm probably going to be all fucked up for a while. They're gonna ask questions.”

“They'll think it's just prom stuff,” Brian says. “We can play it off.”

Justin snorts. “Who would have thought we'd ever call it 'just prom stuff.' God. What a fucking stupid life.”

Brian hooks his fingers onto the cuff of Justin's sweatshirt.

He sighs. “They'd all just be so fucking...I don't know. They'd expect me to like cry in the shower holding my knees or some shit.”

“What do you want to do?” Brian asks.

“I mean, that, but I don't want to make a whole fucking _deal_ about it.”

Brian helps him sit up. “Shower's a good idea.”

Justin leans into his collarbone. “Come with me.”

Brian hesitates, briefly. “Okay.”

Justin says, “Kiss me,” and is surprised, relieved, gratified, when Brian does, deeply and without pause, like he is not afraid Justin will break under his touch, like he is not ruined, like he believes Justin knows what he wants, like they are still them.

Brian holds him in the shower and lets Justin jerk him off, and when Justin places Brian's hand on him, Brian reciprocates. Justin feels Brian watching him, too intently, so he closes his eyes and lets the water beat down on his face. Brian is slow, gentle, presses his face into Justin's shoulder.

Justin falls asleep after the shower and wakes up to the sound of the loft door opening and Brian slipping back inside. He whines a little as Brian crawls back into bed. “Sorry,” Brian whispers. “Didn't mean to wake you.”

“Where were you?”

Brian sighs and lies down on his back. “Getting really fucking drunk.”

Justin closes his eyes and nuzzles under Brian's arm. “Okay.”

A pause, and then Brian says, “He left town.”

“What?”

“The Sap. Babylon's bolted shut. Sign on the door says they're closed until future notice. Mark Grake, you know him?”

“Yeah.”

“Said he picked up and ran first thing this morning.”

Justin thinks this all over. Tries, tries, tries to remember.

“I was going to kill him,” Brian says.

“We don't even know if it was him.”

“I really was,” he says again. “I was going to actually fucking kill a person.” He pulls Justin closer.

“I'm...honored, I guess?” Justin says, and after a beat Brian snorts, and then chuckles, and then they both laugh until they cry.

It doesn't take long.

 

**

 

Brian wakes up at seven, looks at the boy beside him, and closes his eyes as the day before breaks over him like a tidal wave. And then he gets out of bed and pulls his shit together.

Justin doesn't wake up until almost one, while Brian's eating lunch at his laptop. He looks up at the bed when Justin starts shifting around. “Hi,” he says. “There's a sandwich for you on the counter.”

Justin comes to the top of the stairs. He's still not walking right. “Thanks.” He rubs his eyes and looks so much like his normal fucking self that Brian could fucking scream. “You stayed home?”

Brian shrugs.

“I'm supposed to go in...”

“I told Debbie you have a cold. She tried to bring soup.”

“Of course she did.” Justin leans his head against a pillar. “What are you doing?”

Brian considers lying, but why? “Reading websites on how to help you.”

“Can I see?”

“Yeah, come here.”

Justin comes over and perches on the arm of Brian's desk chair, wincing a little, and Brian carefully moves him onto his lap instead. Justin tucks himself into Brian's neck and scrolls down the web page.

“Some of this sounds nice,” Justin says softly.

“Yeah.” Brian kisses his cheek.

“I feel kind of freaked out today.”

“Yeah?”

He nods. “Maybe I'll just watch some TV?”

“That sounds good.”

Justin settles himself on the couch, and Brian tries not to hover, but it's not his fault he keeps thinking of things Justin might need—socks, a blanket, a cup of tea. Justin lets him, for a while, but eventually he says, “You really want to burn yourself out on day one of this shit?”

“Day two,” is Brian's clever comeback.

“You can't go out and get plastered every single night to try to forget that you took care of me,” Justin says. “I think your liver will go on strike.”

Brian, standing behind the couch, wraps his arms loosely around Justin's neck. “Shut up,” he says into his ear.

“It's a good thing you already knew I was fucked up when I moved in here,” Justin says. “You can't kick me out.” He sounds a little nervous.

Brian lets go of him and gives his head a little nudge on his way back to his desk. “You're not going anywhere,” he says, lightly, and he thinks maybe Justin smiles a little.

 

**

 

Justin doesn't want to report it.

“It could have been anyone at that party,” Justin says. “After how the police handled the bashing? No way. I'm not going to be the poster child for gay trauma just because...my life is a poster child for gay trauma.”

It's been a week, and he's still scared Brian's going to throw him out.

“Can you stop being stupid?” Brian says, when he asks for the millionth time. “I already have to put up with you being all fucked up and traumatized, can I _not_ have to deal with you being fucking stupid on top of it? I'm not throwing you out. It's not happening, so fucking get over it.”

Justin lies down on the floor of the loft, because he wants to and he's allowed to just do things now. “You should be nicer to me.”

Brian stares at him incredulously. “How the fuck is this not being nice to you?”

“Well, there was a lot of cursing in it for such a sweet sentiment.”

Brian gets a beer. “Don't call me sweet.”

“I was calling the sentiment sweet.”

“Well, don't call me a sentiment either.”

Justin rolls his eyes. After a minute he says, “I'll let you pay for school. But I think I need some time off.”

Brian drinks. “Okay.”

“God.” Justin covers his face with his hands. “What the fuck are we going to do?”

“We're going to take care of this,” Brian says, like it's obvious.

“Take care of this? We're going to go back in time and un-rape me?” He feels bad, but not bad enough that he wishes he hadn't said it.

Brian sighs and pulls him off the floor and into a rough hug. “No,” he says into Justin's hair. “We're going to get you into therapy, maybe get some pretty pills to help with the nightmares like we should have fucking done six months ago. You're going to draw some scary pictures. And we're going to manage this like a project.”

Maybe that shouldn't sound comforting, but it does. It had the word 'we' in there a lot.

 

**

 

Someone buys Babylon and it reopens. Justin wants to go, but Brian isn't sure.

“People have been asking questions,” Brian says. “Even Debbie's figured out that a cold doesn't last three weeks. They're all going to want to know why they haven't seen you.” They all know Brian is lying to them. You'd think that would make them give up and stop asking, but so far, no dice. Brian's run through every plausible reason he knows and now just tells them Justin has scabies or lupus or the bubonic plague.

“The longer they don't see me, the more questions they're going to ask,” Justin says reasonably. “Might as well nip it as close to the bud as we can.”

“Yeah, but at Babylon?”

“It's not like I was raped _at_ Babylon,” Justin says, and Brian can't really argue with that.

Everyone makes a big deal of Justin showing up, hugging him and ruffling his hair and utterly ignoring Brian's glares. Emmett pulls him onto the floor to dance and Brian watches over the rim of his drink.

“You're gonna give yourself frown lines,” Michael says. “C'mon, dance with me.”

“In a minute,” Brian says, lying.

He keeps his distance until a smaller guy, dark hair, big smile, Justin's type, comes over and cuts in with him and Emmett. Brian watches the dance for a while but intervenes when Justin makes for the back room.

“Not tonight,” he says.

“I'm _fine_ ,” Justin says. “He's just going to blow me.” Brian knew this; they haven't had sex, real sex, yet, and Brian's reasonably confident Justin's first time will be with him, not some guy from the dance floor. Although as soon as he thinks that thought to completion he starts questioning it and good, a new thing to worry about, his traumatized boyfriend stumbling home after trying to prove something, again, again.

“Not yet,” Brian says, panic rising inside him.

“I'm ready.” Justin's eyes are clear, honest.

So Brian returns the favor. “I'm not,” he says.

Justin could get mad here. Justin has every right to yell at Brian that this isn't about him, that he needs to get on board and deal with this at Justin's pace.

He doesn't. He gives an apologetic look to the trick, pulls Brian back to the dance floor, and dances with his head tucked in Brian's neck, and Brian clings.

 

**

 

“It's different from the bashing,” Justin tells his therapist.

She nods thoughtfully.

“That still feels like some horror story that happened to somebody else,” he says. “Like...I can't imagine being a teenager and going to prom and having my...whatever show up. It's somebody else's story. And everyone's so messed up by it...my mom, Daphne, Brian, Debbie. I don't know. All these people can remember, and it became all about them and I just...I feel like I was born this kind of post-bashing person and it's just some explanation everyone came up with.”

“And this?” she prompts.

“This is like...it happened to me so much that it's like...it's _stupid._ It's stupid how much this happened to me.”

 

**

 

Justin has a panic attack at the grocery store. As far as Brian can tell, nothing triggers it. One minute they're bagging apples, the next minute Justin's white as a sheet and gasping like a fish out of water.

It's not Brian's first time at the rodeo. He takes Justin into his arms in the middle of the produce section and cradles his head and waits patiently while Justin shakes and insists he can't breathe. He glares fiercely at anyone who gives them a glance and focuses all his efforts on _not_ squeezing Justin as tightly as he can.

Justin lets go of him eventually, his face smudged with tears. “Come on,” Brian says.

Justin shakes his head. “We need groceries. I can do it.”

Brian kisses a tear off his cheek. “Wait in the car,” he says.

God knows what Brian ends up buying. He loads mystery bags into the car in some sort of trance and climbs in next to Justin. He's still crying a little, staring at the dashboard.

“Did you remember something?” Brian asks quietly.

Justin shakes his head. “No, I have no idea what happened.” He wipes his face.

“That's okay,” Brian says, feeling useless.

Justin laughs a little. “I guess it has to be, right?”

 

**

 

It's been six weeks, and Justin says, “I can't stop thinking about things I could have done.”

Brian sets down the newspaper.

“And it's stupid, because I don't even remember how it went down,” Justin says. He's lying on his back on the couch, staring at the ceiling. He's been trying to draw but everything he does is shit. “But still, I think...I could've said yes the first time you offered to pay for school. Or I could've just taken some time off while I worked out what to do. I could've done a million things different at that party, I'm sure. Could have worn something different, or acted different, drunk something different...”

He barely heard Brian get up, but all of a sudden he's sitting on the coffee table looking at him.

“You can't do that,” Brian says.

Justin looks away.

“No.” Brian grips his arm hard. “You don't want to go down that road.”

Justin shrugs, and Brian sighs and closes his eyes.

“I could’ve put my foot down about the job.” Brian says, flatly, like a recitation. “I could’ve talked to your mother. I could’ve followed you to that party. I could’ve not gotten wasted with Ted. Could’ve stopped Michael from mouthing off to the cop and come back here that night and realized you should have been home. I could have...”

“Brian,” he says softly.

Brian shakes his head, eyes still closed. “I could have walked you back into the dance. I could have stayed for another song. I could have glanced in the other direction when I was getting in the car and seen Hobbs a couple seconds earlier. I could have called your name before I got out of the Jeep instead of a-after.”

Justin tries to breathe.

Brian opens his eyes and pulls shaky lips into his mouth. “You can’t go down that road, okay?” he says, a desperate edge in his voice that pulls somewhere in Justin’s chest. “Not you.”

Justin kisses him, harder, he thinks, than he’s ever done anything. Brian holds their faces together, directs Justin’s jaw, nibbles at his bottom lip.

Justin breathes in the scent of Brian’s cheek and feels dizzy, utterly overwhelmed by how much he wants to be close to Brian and how deeply this isn’t enough. He’s off the couch and on Brian’s lap on the coffee table, legs around his waist, ready to be carried.

Brian breaks the kiss, panting. “Justin...”

Justin shakes his head, grinding against him, insisting.

“Sunshine,” Brian insists back.

It’s not as if they’ve been celibate. They’ve jerked each other, sucked each other off. Brian has kept tricking, which Justin had known and insisted on, has been grateful not to have satisfying Brian as his silent responsibility.

He wants that responsibility back now.

“I’m ready,” Justin says. “I want to. If you want to.”

Brian studies him, fear and desire battling behind his eyes. Like old times, Justin thinks.

“Fuck me,” Justin whispers, and Brian groans and hoists him into his arms.

“If something doesn’t feel right, you _stop me,_ ” Brian growls in his ear as he works through their clothes.

“I promise.”

It reminds him, naturally, of the night they had sex after Gus’s party. Again, Brian is slow, agonizingly gentle, watching him intensely. Again, Justin lays reassuring hands on him, nods, kisses.

“Say my name,” Brian whispers.

“Brian.” Justin pushes his face into Brian’s collarbone. “Brian, Brian, I love you.”

Brian breathes in sharply and sinks his teeth in Justin’s neck.

After they’re done, after Brian’s anxiously checked, several times, if Justin is okay, Justin passes Brian the cigarette and says, “Part of me was kind of hoping it would make me remember something. Is that fucked up?”

Brian is quiet for a long time.

“Yes,” he says eventually.

 

**

 

Brian comes back to the table with another round of drinks and has to force himself not to stop and flee the establishment when he hears Ted say “rape.”

Justin is calm, though, if a little passionate. “I’m not saying it’s the same as rape,” he says. “Obviously being hit on is not the same as being raped. I’m saying that catcalls and shit, bothering someone who’s not showing interest in you, is part of rape culture.”

Ben says, “I think the danger of calling something small like that rape culture is that it trivializes the victims of actual rape.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Justin says. “It’s pointing out symptoms of a sick society that leads to rape happening. It’s crucial.”

Michael says, “Brian, who’s right?”

“Justin is,” Brian says, easily, taking a swig from his beer.

“What about lying to someone to get them into bed?” Emmett says.

“Mmm,” Justin says, mouth full of beer, then swallows and says, “Absolutely. Absolutely rape culture.”

“Come on,” Ted says. “We’ve all done that. And had it done to us. So we’re all rapists and victims.”

“Again,” Justin says. “Rape culture is not the same as rape.”

“But it’s coded for it,” Ted says.

“No it isn’t,” Justin says. “No more than if I say something about Brian’s peacoat I’m actually talking about peas.”

Emmett says, “Brian, who’s right?”

Brian traps Justin’s foot under the table. “Justin is.”

“I don’t think some little thing everyone does can be such an issue,” Michael says. “I mean, if by definition everyone’s doing it...I mean, every gay guy I know has had an experience that didn’t go the way he wanted to.”

“And every woman,” Emmett adds. “And probably some straight guys.”

“Right, and that doesn’t mean we’ve all been raped,” Michael says, and Justin rolls his eyes but stays quiet.

“I think we can’t let our fear of admitting culpability lead us to believe that something is okay just because it’s small,” Ben says. “Sometimes minor behaviors are what determine the course of a society.”

Ted says, “Brian, who’s right?”

“Justin is,” Brian says.

Michael is nonplussed. “But Justin didn’t say anything.”

Brian shrugs.

Later, back in the shower, Justin says, “Did you really think I was right, or were you just worried I’d freak out if you didn’t agree with me?”

Brian leans his face into the spray. “I tend to trust you on rape-related matters,” he says.

“I’m fine with that,” Justin says.

Brian shampoos Justin’s hair. “Good.”

Justin leans back and lets Brian rinse him clean. “I’ve been thinking a lot about stuff like that lately,” Justin says. “I never noticed it before. I told you Sap wanted pretty boys around his party and I didn’t even think about how fucked up that was.”

Brian is quiet for a while, trying to decide what to say, whether to say anything, and when he finally speaks his voice barely sounds like his. “She eventually told our parents. I told her not to.”

Justin turns and looks up at him.

“Our mother cried,” he says. “And Dad...he said all the right things at first, y’know? How he was sorry, how he’d kill the son of a bitch. And then he goes...but you know, Claire, you’re a pretty girl, and this is the kind of thing that happens to pretty girls.” He washes Justin’s face, carefully. “That was the only time I ever hit him.”

Justin kisses him softly, and Brian feels something inside him let go.

 

**

 

“My therapist says one of the problems with victim blaming is you’re just saying someone else should have been raped instead,” Justin says one night at they’re getting ready for bed. "If I'd been smarter, someone else would have been the dumbest person in the room, and they would have just gone for him instead. It's not addressing the actual problem. Me making better decisions wouldn't have magically turned my rapist into a decent person."

Brian's lounging on the bed with a magazine. Justin's weirdly happy that they've progressed to the point where they can talk about rape and read magazines at the same time. "That make sense."

"Yeah." Justin lies down on the bed next to Brian and rubs lotion on his arms.

Brian absently strokes up and down Justin's stomach.

"Sometimes I still wish it happened to someone else, though," Justin says quietly.

Brian watches him. "Me too."


End file.
